


Public Use

by epochryphal



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Kink, Kink Party, Marking, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pillory, Public Humiliation, Public Kink, Public Scene, Safewords, Stocks, ooc honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epochryphal/pseuds/epochryphal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I – don't have a play partner but.  I want," you jerk your head, "to use the stocks.  I have a fuckload of safety precautions," you hasten to add, "I know to use 'red' or 'safeword' and I have a palm-sized rubber bouncy ball to drop and/or throw to get someone's attention, and I have cases of sanitary supplies and my own toys and signs with instructions and limits, and I looked up the rules and it didn't say specifically but it's not violating anything and you can kick me out of them whenever and it should be completely fine shouldn't it?"</p><p>The DM shrugs. "Okay."</p><p>***</p><p>It's the local kink club's trans*-centric night. You made it here, you brought everything; you're doing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Public Use

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this awhile back, reread it recently, here you go AO3.

It is with no small trepidation in your bloodpusher that you hand your ID to the doorkeeper, look over the nondescript entrance one last time, tighten your grip on your bag, and press inside.

The intake table at the top of the terribly-narrow-yet-pleasantly-green stairway is staffed by an array of very cheery folk of various genders. One with long hair and multiple facial piercings—the kind you wish you'd grow a chitinous layer and toughen up to get—smiles at you, takes your money, and offers to explain the posted rules. You mumble a thanks, that's okay, they're pretty self-explanatory, and push through the black curtains.

Just inside the locker room, you pause to drink everything in. Latex and leather scent the air; sweat will join them later. There are mohawks and undercuts and bobs and curls and hair down to some _fine_ asses, on people brown and white and black and grey, from windpipe-thin to glorious mothergrub majesty. There are pairs and singles and triples and mores, with genders you couldn't begin to guess at and would be pleased as a masochist getting consensually punched to learn. And all with or without various pieces of attire.

You break away from the danger zone by the entrance, bypass the lockers and head for the completely-all-genders-all-the-time restroom. You nod to the folks washing their hands, lock yourself inside a stall and unzip your bag to peruse its contents.

Maybe you should've tried this at home—but gods, if any police had pulled you over? Public kink, sure, but _context_. You feel your face heating and growl under your breath, grabbing a marker (red). Off comes your shirt; now you're craning around, marker de-capped, scribbling at your skin and hoping to fuck it's passably legible. Blue marker, pants down, smaller font and a slightly easier time of it. Brown marker, and you're squinting flushed into the reflection of the toilet paper dispenser, carefully writing the correctly-facing letters on your left cheek.

You pack everything back up, pull all your clothes on, breathe deep, breathe deeper, and slowly step out to check your handiwork in the main bathroom mirror. You get a smile from the other restroom user on their way out; you double-check that the coast is clear before flashing your skin at the mirror.

"PUBLIC USE" reads in bright red capitals across your upper back. Lower down, a blue "PLEASE USE MY ONLY HOLE GENTLY" is followed by an awkward heart and an arrow to the appropriate place; fuck but you hope that communicates the whole trans* body boundaries thing adequately. And on your cheek is a soft brown "SLAP ME" with one more lopsided heart.

Legible. Visible.

Fuck.

This is happening.

Head pounding, you straighten yourself up and carry your bag out to the play area. Without letting yourself look around at the equipment and the people using them (and the people watching them), you march right up to a DM. They smile at you expectantly. Your resolve flutters, strengthens. Your mouth tastes like the entrails of a stuffed animal plush. You open it anyway.

"I – don't have a play partner but. I want," you jerk your head, "to use the stocks. I have a fuckload of safety precautions," you hasten to add, "I know to use 'red' or 'safeword' and I have a palm-sized rubber bouncy ball to drop and/or throw to get someone's attention, and I have cases of sanitary supplies and my own toys and signs with instructions and limits, and I looked up the rules and it didn't say specifically but it's not violating anything and you can kick me out of them whenever and it should be completely fine shouldn't it?"

You bite the inside of your cheek and repeatedly mentally punch yourself in the jaw while you search this face that has so much power over you.

"Okay." The DM shrugs. "Are you going to say 'no' or 'help' or any consensual non-consent things?"

"No. Not planning on it."

"Then you're good to go. Just clean up afterwards, yeah? Oh, and do you have a labeled combination lock?"

The pressure in your auricular holes is so high you might faint. "And a padlock with attached key."

"Perfect. Sounds like you're all set. It's right over there when you're ready."

You follow their gaze to just off the center of the space, where an unassuming wooden board with three round holes waits unoccupied. The sight of it jolts through you, and with a distracted slew of thank yous you circle your way over.

The wood has a rough look but is smooth to the touch, glossy finish protecting the users from surprise splinters. You run your fingers over every inch, caressing its lines, grains, hinges, lock. It creaks when you open and close it, a mouth yawning in somnolent greeting. Poor unused thing. It's a little lower to the ground than you expected, especially given the average height of people other than your vertically-challenged ass. Of course, 'ass' is probably exactly what that's about.

You set your bag down and begin setting up.

There'll be no removing a shirt once you're locked in, so you take yours off and set it neatly aside. The markers go in a neat little box with a decorated sign that, creatively, reads "MARKERS" with a few multicolored five-point stars. A parallel sign marked "TOYS" gets propped up behind the bag itself; you drape the flogger handle to poke out, and fiddle with the internal arrangement of gags, wartenberg wheels, ace bandages. "SUPPLIES" goes with a small tupperware bin of condoms, wipes, dental dams and lube.

You heft a lock in each hand, pretending to contemplate; the combination lock goes back in the bag side-pocket.

You grab your rubber ball and squeeze it like some convoluted metaphor meaning really fucking hard, breathe like you're practicing being alive, and stand up. You get in place, lean over. Yeah, this makes your ass way the fuck up in the air. Okay.

Slowly, tenderly, you lower the stocks shut.


End file.
